Direct Me to Group Therapy
by Snazzy Suit
Summary: "How you doin'…Doc?" he growls deeply, putting unusual emphasis on my abbreviated title. The brief inquiry sends a nauseating wave of hot, putrid breath into my face. "Well." I state evenly, trying my best to ignore the stench. "And yourself?" The man's expression suddenly morphs into a vicious snarl, then, just as quickly, twists back into that eerie grin. "Peachy" He hisses.


Be sure to check out my profile for a full summary. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Left 4 Dead. :C

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I offer you a peculiar sight.

A small room, grimly lit by cheap fluorescent lighting, walls lined with stocked bookcases and elegantly framed diplomas and degrees. The desk, free of personalization, only bares the essentials for its owner's work: a computer, writing utensils arranged by length, and a neatly stacked pile of documents. Other than that, the surface is barren, save for a clip of business cards and a polished plaque engraved with a name; the resident of this office.

Dr. Rector

First name, Middle initial, both absent. Just the title and last name. Strange, yes. Though not the oddity to which I earlier referred.

Before me lies the abnormality.

A semi-circle of metal folding chairs encompass the front of my desk. Well, more of an oval due to the sheer amount, sixteen in all. Honestly, I'm surprised they were all able to fit in this tiny space. Each seat holds one of my new patients, all very unique in their appearance and mannerisms. Funny how I'm able to decipher so much through a mere glance.

Eight of the chairs house some of the most exhausted individuals I have ever seen. Closest to my desk, on the right, is the perfect picture of your average working man. Black slacks, long sleeved white button-up shirt, and a red tie hanging loosely around his neck, a professional without a doubt. At least before all of this. I can see past the grime, the blood, the scars riddling his dark skin. This man worked hard, he dealt with a lot, yet he didn't let it damper his hopes for humanity. Watching him awkwardly grin at those seated on the opposite side, I could practically feel the optimism radiating from whatever thoughts that swirled in that shaved head.

_Everything is going to be okay. You'll see._

The man beside him is the polar opposite. At least, as far as appearances go. Then again, the way he rolls his eyes at the optimistic man to his left and mutters his displeasure (something about hating therapy), it may be safe to say his personality matches his rough exterior. He's quite tall, with medium toned skin and boasts a shaved head much like the office worker. Very well built if his broad shoulders and toned arms are any indication. While the former business man has a more or less relaxed posture, this man chooses to sit tall; tattooed arms folded across his chest as he glares around the room, perhaps to intimidate the other guests. He only drops eye contact to occasionally inspect his grimy vest, or make rude gestures at the older gentleman to his right.

The 'old timer', as the apparent biker chooses to call him, ignores most of the ruffian's prodding. The only indication that the man even hears the delinquent's words is the hard glance he frequently throws or a daunting fake out to unnerve his antagonist. (Most often in the form of attempting to burn the burly man with a cigarette.) When not in the biker's line of fire, the older man chooses to carefully examine those seated around him, almost calculative in manner. It makes sense, though, coming from this man. Judging by his attire, he is clearly a veteran. Vietnam era undoubtedly. His eyes hold a hint of darkness that can only come from those that have been on the battlefield and, in a way, never truly left. There's more to him, however, than your classic 'man haunted by war'. I can feel it, but know deep down it's unlikely that I, or anyone else, will ever learn of it.

The war veteran casts another look at my desk, the sixth time since entering this tiny room, directing most of his focus at my name plaque. He studies it for a moment, briefly meets my eyes, and turns away, absentmindedly rubbing his white beard before extinguishing his cigarette in the ash tray at his feet.

An observant man. I'll keep that in mind.

That is about the extent of the attention he pays me, the exception being his almost empty nod when I permitted his smoking despite the rules of this office. I take no offense to his cold behavior. I can't say the other guests feel the same, but if anyone is bothered, they choose to hide it. The only person he regards with a smile, a genuine smile, is the young lady seated to his right.

She's nervous. You don't need to be a psychologist to see that. Bouncing knee, flitting eyes, busying of the hands, all classic signs. The girl has every right to be a little nervous. Someone her age has enough to worry about: moving out, attending college, but fighting for your life in an apocalypse? There's no lecture to prepare you for that. The young woman rolls up the sleeves of her pink track jacket, apparently hit by a sudden wave of uncomfortable heat, revealing once fair skin now riddled with cringe worthy cuts and bruises. She lets out a ragged sigh, clearly unhappy with the result of her attempt at relief, before tugging half-heartily at her ponytail.

She's murmuring words near incoherently. I pick out a few phrases: lines from classic horror movies, rules for survival, and, most distinctly, something about 'zombie bullshit'. I'm not quite sure what that means, but I can only speculate she is expressing frustration over the nature of the apocalypse. This is no movie. There's no 'formula' to dictate what happens next. Clearly, that upsets her. I'm afraid I don't know what that feels like.

To _not_ be in control.

The quiet ramblings are interrupted when a gentle hand rests on her right shoulder, startling the college student once deep in thought. She warily turns to the source of the interference, meeting the kind eyes of a woman not much older than she. The dark skinned woman tilts her head, causing her large, looped earrings to jingle slightly, before offering a comforting smile. The college student grins, grateful for the friendly gesture, and nods her thanks before taking a deep breath and averting her eyes to the floor.

Pleased to have been of some help, the young woman slowly draws back her hand and places it in her lap. She glances down at her feet, inspecting her soiled boots with a grimace. The reaction is repeated when she moves to look over her once pink shirt and again when she runs a hand through her ponytail. The young lady sighs her wish for a hot shower and a change of clothes before slumping in her chair.

I narrow my eyes as I watch. It's odd, I can't seem to get a good read on her. The woman seems kind, patient even, but that's about all I can tell. This person is no open book. If not for her file, I wouldn't know of anything else. She was an associate producer before all this. Though she was employed at a big name news station, the poor thing rarely did more than fetch coffee and lug cables.

Being unappreciated; _that_ I can relate to.

The young woman's career didn't look like it was going anywhere anytime soon. It wasn't until the start of the Infection did she get a chance to prove herself. Too bad her opportunity turned out to be the end of life as we know it. Fate is a cruel thing.

A warm chuckle catches the ex-producers' attention. A large, older gentlemen seated to her right casts her an amused look, commenting on her obvious disgust with her current appearance. He gestures to himself, pointing out that his clothes and scar riddled dark skin were just as filthy. The man adds that he looks even worse, his attempt to make her feel better. It works to a degree, if that sincere smile and soft laugh are any indication. I say to a degree, because she replies with a friendly jab, noting that he doesn't have greasy hair to worry over. The man shudders with suppressed laughter as he sweeps a hand over his smooth head, admitting defeat in their playful argument.

Little sister he calls her, though I know the two aren't related. I can tell by looking closely at their features. Even if I didn't have that ability, I do have their files for confirmation. The large man once had a promising future in college football, but that was all put to an end with an unfortunate knee injury. If his high school staff polo shirt is any clue, the former athlete then turned to a career in physical education. I wonder how heart breaking that would be, to go from a budding star to having a permanent spot on the side lines. One would think it would make you bitter, but this high school coach clearly didn't let his fate damper his outlook on life.

Admirable. Or is it sad? I honestly can't say.

When I turn my attention to the patient on the coach's right, I discover that I am being carefully watched. Most would quickly avert their gaze when caught staring, but not this man. When our eyes meet, he holds contact for quite some time, almost like a challenge. This would unnerve many, but not I. Not someone who has seen far more disturbing, so frequently, that such a gesture isn't so much as a blip on the metaphorical radar. He is very similar to me in that aspect. His piercing green eyes tell a story, a story that many believe only exists in fiction or in a world far away from their own.

I can only guess the details of this man's life, his file practically empty aside from a few criminal convictions. Appearances only tell you so much, and, more often than not, are rather inaccurate. I feel this man, however, may be an exception. His once white suit is of an exquisite brand, one seen in my own wardrobe, and I can assure you it was _not_ cheap. It's a shame to see his expensive attire so utterly ruined. He clearly feels the same way, as he grumbled fiercely about the stains when he first arrived. I caught him admiring my own suit a time or two when he believed my attention to be elsewhere. Admiration, or was it a look of suspicion?

Like the veteran, this man will be kept under close observation.

The man's fists clench slightly, causing the grim lighting to catch on one of his many rings. My eyes are drawn to an engraved symbol, one that matches a tattoo on the biker's arm. A gang perhaps? It's odd to think the two men could be affiliated with the same group. I'm about to meet the wary man's eyes again when another detail catches my interest. His upper chest bares shallow scratches, an attack from an Infected or the 'love marks' of a past fling? The lipstick smudges, hickey, and splatter of blood suggest either, maybe even both. Whatever the cause, he was undoubtedly a ladies man before all this.

I meet the man's gaze once more, contemplating my observations. Criminal record? Snazzy suit? Pricey jewelry? Womanizer? There are many names that could be used to describe such an individual. I can't be sure until I get a little more information, but these attributes lead to a particular label in my mind.

Conman.

His eyes narrow, as if he heard the offensive title echo through my thoughts. The assumed conman looks as if he is about to speak, but before he can utter a word the man is startled by a friendly jab to the ribs. He abruptly turns to his right with a look of surprise, which quickly morphs into one of annoyance once he discovers the identity of the offender.

The conman's disgust is obvious, but the young man whom gained his attention is either oblivious or chooses to ignore the negative body language. He flashes the irritated man a wide grin, adjusting his cap as he confronts the criminal over his foul mood. His encouraging words to "take it easy" fall on deaf ears, the conman trying to his best to regain composure and return to our apparent stare down.

Eventually the conman gives up, turning back to the determined youth with a harsh comment, hoping the venom in his words take root. At first, it seems to work, the young man's cheerful expression broken by a frown and eyes betraying hurt feelings. For a brief moment, the criminal appears to regret his response to the boy. It seems as though such exchanges are common, and the conman didn't expect the upbeat youth to react in such a way. All that guilt vanishes instantly, however, when that childlike smile returns, followed by rambles of how the conman's remark reminded him of a past event with a reckless friend.

A small smile tugs at my lips as the comical scene unfolds. The shady loner hangs his head, clenched fists shaking with exasperation as the boy continues to weave his unbelievable tale with very animated gestures and expressions. I study the immature youth as he speaks, noting his thick southern accent and grease coated attire. His cap's logo suggests the young man once worked at a garage; a mechanic of sorts. Hard to believe the kid could hold still long enough to perform such tasks.

I quirk an eyebrow when I allow a few details from the youth's absurd story to absorb into my mind. It is highly unlikely the young man before me and this 'Keith' fellow he frequently refers to had ever partaken in such unbelievable stunts. In fact, due to the number of near death experiences mentioned in the naive mechanic's tale, I'm beginning to wonder if this 'Keith' is even a real person. Perhaps these fabrications were created so the young man may impress his new allies, convincing them that the boy could prove useful. (Though I fear if I were in their position, it would certainly hold the opposite effect. Such a reckless child would be viewed as a weak link, not an asset.) Another theory leads me to believe the stories are a coping mechanism. Maybe reminiscing past experiences (highly exaggerated mind you) brings the youth comfort, keeping him anchored in such a taxing new life.

Whatever the case, I'm sure this young man's frail mind will prove most interesting to pick apart.

Eight chairs, holding eight unique strangers forced together during a time of crisis. All of which either struggle to cling to their sanity, or come to realize they never had much to begin with. I have a difficult path ahead trying to help these people, people who may already be lost.

I'm looking forward to it.

As I turn to the left, ready to perform another quick analysis with the remaining eight patients, I find myself near face to face with an unpleasant sight. While I had my attention elsewhere, the man seated on the left side of my workspace had decided to move to where he was hovering but a few inches from my person, outstretched arms supporting him as he leans over my desk. His hooded face tilts slightly as his lips part into a menacing grin, revealing crooked, bloody teeth.

"How you doin'…_Doc_?" he growls deeply, putting unusual emphasis on my abbreviated title.

The brief inquiry sends a nauseating wave of hot, putrid breath into my face. The powerful stench of death and disease is enough to singe eyebrows, though I manage to hold firm and do not allow myself to show visible signs of discomfort. My eyes trail down the man's arms and halt at his hands planted firmly on my desk. Expression neutral, I take in the sight of grime and blood smears caused by the slightest shift in the man's position. I resist the urge to scowl when I notice the unruly man's claws were leaving shallow marks in the once pristine surface of my work space.

I adjust my rectangular silver framed glasses, an irritating tic I've developed in recent years, as I meet the looming figure's eyes. Or, should I say, where they would be, seeing as they are concealed by his dark grey hood.

"Well." I state evenly. "And yourself?"

A sincere response followed by a polite question, one exchanged many times in a time before this hell. One that would not ordinarily cause offense. Though considering the situation, my inquiry may come across as some sort of insult. The man before me was warped in appearance. Angry, splotchy skin tainted with disease. Fingers topped with animal like claws, or perhaps bone extended by the virus' influence. Legs rippling with muscle, permitting leaps of inhuman distance and height. A feral growl involuntarily released at the sight of other life forms and a mind wiped clean of all he once was.

Yes, how are you indeed?

The man's expression suddenly morphs into a vicious snarl, then, just as quickly, twists back into that eerie grin.

"Peachy." He hisses.

As the hooded man draws away, a long, thick, grayish-purple appendage strikes the sweatshirt wearer over the back of his head. The man whips around to face his attacker, emitting an infuriated shriek.

"You're not intimidating anyone." A raspy voice hacks, cutting off the hooded man's cry. "Sit your ass down before you embarrass yourself further."

A scratchy chuckle accompanied by a sneer. "That means a lot coming from your cowardly kind."

Noteworthy observation: It appears the virus provokes hostility, pushing Infected into childish quarrels among themselves.

I watch the squabble with dull interest, taking the time to study the apparent instigator. Like the hooded one, this man's skin is plagued with an obvious unhealthy hue. Beyond that, however, their appearances are entirely different. The tall, lanky body of the raspy-voiced individual is dotted with tumors of various sizes, the largest being located around his neck and half of his face, even swelling over an eye. Strange appendages, colored like the one that started the conflict, protrude from several spots along the man's head and neck, wriggling and curling as if they had a mind of their own. The largest and longest of them (and more than likely _the_ appendage used to attack the hooded man) lazily lolls out of the instigator's mouth, twitching occasionally as the man speaks.

Whether he chooses to speak or remain silent, the lanky man, like clockwork, would involuntarily release a ragged cough, emitting a cloud of what looked oddly like green spores. These spores seemed to hover around his person, an unsettling sight with an unknown purpose.

The friction growing between the two is making a few of the other patients uneasy, sensing a potential fight that may draw them in whether they want any part of it or not. A near silent sigh escapes my lips, and I am beginning to consider breaking up the heated exchange when one of the guests beats me to it.

A chubby, discolored hand is placed on the shoulder of both the hooded man and the lanky individual, causing their vicious exchange to come to an abrupt end. They turn to the patient that dared to intervene, fury and annoyance still etched into their features. His expression is fairly neutral as he regards the two, sending a silent message that holds neither threat nor plea.

_Enough._

The three hold their positions for a moment more, completely silent as they exchange unreadable glances. Finally, the hooded one and lanky man lock eyes one more time before returning to their seats, grumbling as they attempt to have the last word.

"Filthy tar breath."

"Sweatshirt-wearin' little wuss."

I raise an eyebrow slightly when I hear the biker snicker at the lanky fellow's insult, wheezing his approval as he eventually calms down. When I return my attention to the apparent peace keeper, I find that he has already taken his seat to the left of the lanky instigator.

Surprisingly quick for a fellow his size.

At the risk of sounding rude, I can't help but admit my amazement that this gentleman is able to sit in such a small chair comfortably. The way he awkwardly hunches over his massive gut, however, leads me to believe that this may not be the case, though if he is in any pain, he hides it well. I can only imagine the discomfort of inhabiting a body swelling with bile, pustules threatening to explode at the slightest agitation.

Nauseating, vile, repulsive…

…

I forget myself, a weak moment not to be repeated.

Clearing my mind of such embarrassing, unprofessional thoughts, I turn my train of thought to a more deserving matter. The bulbous man before me was unstable, a biological time bomb. Though his kind spews bile on command, I don't doubt that the occasion arises that the urge comes none so willingly. This is no theory, as the requested wastebasket at the portly man's feet is evidence enough.

A quiet sob catches my attention. My gaze flickers over to its source; the patient seated on the chubby man's left. This chair's occupant is a woman, quite the rarity. I find it odd that the female population seems to lack among both the Survivors and the Special Infected. It makes more sense for the Survivors, since females are less likely to be immune, but I don't understand the reasoning for that being the case with the Infected. If anything, shouldn't there be more female Infected than male? Or are females less likely to survive their infection? Truly puzzling, but not something to be addressed at the moment.

I take in the woman's appearance, noting that she is the peace maker's exact opposite. While the portly man is bloated with veiny, boil tainted skin, her frame is small, and appears almost frail with her pale, unhealthy complexion. I watch as she gently raises her head, briefly peering through grey, matted hair at the woman seated opposite her. It is the college student that she directs her attention towards. The college student, whom eventually notices the blank stare focused on her person, smiles nervously and offers a slight wave of acknowledgement before averting her eyes elsewhere.

Such uneasiness. How could such a feeling be felt around someone so fragile? The answer is made obvious when the Infected woman resumes her wail as she lowers her head into ominous hands. The pointed phalanges of the hooded man are nothing when compared to her own. The sheer length and sharpened edges would lead one unfamiliar to this strain's nature to believe someone simply taped a carving knife to each of her fingers.

A breathy, irritated growl sounds from the tiny woman's left, effectively interrupting her trance. The Survivors closest to her stiffen as her crying ceases, slowly morphing into an angry hiss as she turns to glare at the only thing brave/dumb enough to provoke her. The pale woman cranes her neck slightly so she may more efficiently try to intimidate the wall of muscle seated by her side.

No, seated wouldn't be technically correct, as the twisted metal that once was a chair is not currently being used for its intended purpose. Though the metal folding chair was offered in a polite gesture, no one, not even the behemoth humorously standing over the crushed furniture, believed it would support his weight.

The trouble maker huffs, clearly not bothered by the small woman's threatening body language. Though if you towered over seven feet and bore muscles that made professional body builders look weak, then there wouldn't be much that unnerved you either. Even with that being the case, the muscular man chooses to turn to the woman and share his own death glare. Of course, having unnaturally bulging muscles has its fair share of disadvantages, like no longer possessing the luxury of a functioning neck. So instead of simply looking to his right, the wall of muscle literally has to turn his entire body.

As one could image, a man this size maneuvering in a space this small is not without consequence. When the behemoth turns, he unknowingly jabs the man seated to his left with a beefy elbow, causing the unlucky fellow to swear loudly and clutch his head in agony.

Any sympathy I may have felt is lost in overwhelming curiosity as I observe the unfortunate victim's head disappear beneath his massive hand, the other hand struggling to make any contact with the cranium at all. The man was so oddly proportioned, it was almost comical. Right arm, colossal and riddled with scars, the left, stringy and near skeletal. His legs were exact opposite, the right foot being smaller and the left being a marginally larger size.

After a moment of pained groaning, the lopsided man uncovers his face, revealing sunken-in eyes bright with rage. He snarls as he twists to face the offender, massive arm raised to strike the clumsy wall of muscle, when a tap on the shoulder stops him. The unbalanced fellow whirls around at the contact, coming face to face with sight that would…unsettle many others.

Gaping maw courtesy of an unhinged jaw, dribbling digestive juices altered by the virus down an elongated neck and onto a flabby body hideously warped by the infection. This is the figure that occupies the seat to the left of the infuriated man. Most people would shriek, lash out, or cower away from such an abomination. Instead of any such reaction, the oddly proportioned man's expression softens, if only slightly, as if greeted by a close friend.

The shadow of what once was human gurgles what I can only assume are comforting words, an attempt to cool the other man's temper. Interestingly enough, it seems to work, the only aggression remaining is a promise of payback muttered through a low growl. He nods his thanks to the intervening patient and directs his gaze to the ground appearing deep in thought, perhaps plotting his assured revenge.

A smile tugs at the Infected's features, well, what remains of its features, before averting focus to a new target: the conman. Unlike the pale woman who regarding the college student with an unreadable gaze, this Infected's expression all but screamed underlying thoughts and intentions. Once again, no degree required here to know what that look meant, even if half the Infected's face was virtually missing.

_She_ was interested in _him_.

…I did mention the Infected's sex was female did I not? Yes, well, my sincerest apologies for unintentionally excluding that detail.

It doesn't take long for the shady conman to detect the unwanted eyes wandering over his person. He blinks, looking around as he tries to locate the source of the disturbance. The crook freezes when he meets the eyes of the misshapen woman, quirking an eyebrow at the seemingly random attention. After but a moment of studying her warped features the realization hits him, draining nearly all color from his face. Looking somewhere between ill and disgusted, the conman quickly comes up with a distraction from the suddenly awkward tension. He turns to the young mechanic, fumbling over his words as he uncharacteristically requests the youth tell another story. The young man's face lights up, like a child awakening on Christmas morning, and wastes no time diving into yet another unbelievable tale.

Seemingly oblivious to the obvious rejection, the warped woman emits the closest thing to a longing sigh as she is physically capable before resting her cheek upon her clawed hand. She is not given the opportunity to dwell in the moment, as an eerie cackle forces her out of whatever fantasy her mind may have been conjuring. She growls irritably, snapping at the sixteenth and final patient in attendance.

He continues his manic giggling despite the shapely woman's warning, rocking precariously on the edge of his seat. The annoyed woman narrows her eyes at the laughter stricken man, gurgling yet another threat in attempt to have him cease his unnatural chortles. I stare blankly at the object of her frustration, carefully noting his appearance and behavior.

The cackling fellow is abnormally hunched, as if suffering from a spinal disease, like an extreme case of kyphosis. His lips are completely missing, whether from the virus or some other influence, keeping his face twisted in a constant, unnerving grin. The oddly shaped man appears unable or unwilling to sit still, the same being said for his constant wave of laughter, which shows no sign of ending anytime soon.

I can understand why the Infected woman would lose patience with such an unruly character, though I'm not sure if she is bothered by his relentless fidgeting, or if she believes the manic individual to be displaying amusement over the conman's reaction to her shameless ogling. Whatever the reason, she appears to not want to tolerate his outbursts.

In a moment of weakness, I close my eyes and arrange my glasses so I may pinch the bridge of my nose. Sixteen patients; eight of them ragged, wary Survivors, the others arguable monsters. I had originally believed this would be an interesting experience, but now I was beginning to wonder if the cons of such a task would prove far too…taxing.

I open my eyes and cast another glance around the room.

I must not allow myself to become frazzled so soon. I knew when I took up this project that it would not be a simple task.

A cool, knowing smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

Besides, the exercises we will be performing will be well worth it in the long run.

I straighten in my cushioned chair, adjust my glasses, and regard my guests with new resolve. When my body and mind finally returns to a familiar stasis, I take a deep breath and clear my throat, gaining the attention of all those that reside in this tiny office.

"I would like to thank you all again for your patience in this matter." I state in a smooth, even tone. "Now, let's get started shall we?"

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**Author's Notes:**

Wow. I don't think that guy is a real psychologist. 0_o Neither does Bill, Nick, and perhaps even the Hunter for that matter.

Did I just turn character descriptions into an entire chapter? You bet your ass I did! :U

Sorry if that got a bit boring at times, I just wanted to show how Dr. Rector viewed his patients. Pretty cold and distant wouldn't you say? Also, it gave me the opportunity to see if I can provide enough details that the reader can figure out who is being described without being slapped in the face with a name. Kinda went overboard, but hey, it was fun!

Reviews are always welcome, whether you want to tell me what you like/dislike about the story or critique me as a writer.


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